


Prison

by lady_of_scarlet



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Dark, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Hypnotism, M/M, Multi, Non Consensual, Other, Sexual Violence, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_of_scarlet/pseuds/lady_of_scarlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Mentalist KinkMeme Prompt: "I want prison fic. Nasty, cruel, evil MEAN prison fic with Jane. And torture. Lots of torture. Hurt comfort optional, torture is not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> **Mentalist KinkMeme Prompt:** "I want prison fic. Nasty, cruel, evil MEAN prison fic with Jane. And torture. Lots of torture. Hurt comfort optional, torture is not."--oroburos69
> 
>  **Chapter 1 A/N:** Graphic and explicit violence and non-con, with a shitload of angst and hurt and not even a hint of comfort to make up for it. Spoilers for the ep where Jane goes to prison, since it is set during that. And when I say graphic non-con, I mean **graphic non-con**. Consider yourself warned.
> 
>  **Chapter 2 A/N:** Sequel to the mentalist kink meme "Prison" fic, continued on request. Warning for highly unconventional post-non-con coping mechanisms, questionable morals, death of unimportant characters, language, graphic violence, disturbing themes, **possible triggers** and more hurt than comfort because I could not make this work any other way. At least it is done. The end, no more, never again, do not want.

He isn’t expecting the noise when it comes, but he manages to compose himself immediately. The rhythmic clank of a nightstick skimming across steel bars echoes down the hall and marks the progress of one of the guards.

Deputy Bulger, Jane deduces.

The man has the slightest limp in his gait, a result no doubt of his new and poorly fitting regulation shoes and possibly a previous incident involving his L3 and L4 vertebrae. His left foot drags slightly behind his right.

Jane takes note of his approach calmly.

The metallic clang grows louder as Bulger moves closer to Jane’s cell.

At first he thinks nothing of it, but there is something peculiar in the guard’s footsteps now, a sense of purpose and determination that Jane wouldn’t expect from a simple round. Most of the other prisoners are still asleep, save those now awakened by the noise.

The sound stops, and so do the footsteps, as the guard reaches his cell.

“Inmate Jane?”

Jane debates whether or not to pretend to be sleeping. He tilts his head to the side, only to be greeted with the blinding beam of a flashlight. Too late now.

He has read about prison life, the arbitrary counts performed at all hours by power hungry and over-compensating guards, and he wonders if that’s what this is. Jane is not in the mood to be bothered by this inane little man. He has things to do here. A case to solve and all that.

Jane’s vision is obscured by the light, an effect he knows the guard was going for. He cannot clearly see Bulger’s face, but his voice carries to the top bunk with an eerie disembodiment, “Get up. You’re being transferred into protective custody.”

Interesting.

He didn’t think Lisbon would give in so quickly. She had a point to prove, after all, and he hadn’t learned any humbling life-lessons yet.

“I think I’d prefer to stay right where I am, thank you,” Jane responds.

“I didn’t say you had a choice,” Bulger states. “Get up.”

Jane scoffs, but sits up awkwardly and swings his legs over the side. Bill is still fast asleep below him, emitting the occasional snore. Jane jumps down from his bunk, swiftly slipping into his shoes, and stands in front of the bars. Protective custody means solitary, and Jane is more of a people person. The quiet does strange things to his mind.

“Listen,” Jane reminds the guard with a longsuffering sigh, trying to keep the disdain out of his voice. “We’ve been over this. I’m not a cop or a child rapist. I’m just a consultant. I don’t need protective custody.”

“Warden says you do. Hands out,” he demands.

Jane complies, offering his wrists though the designated slot in the bars. Cold metal cuffs are slapped on quickly.

The cell door slides open almost silently. It’s surprisingly well oiled, but this facility is supposed to be a well oiled machine, after all.

Jane finds himself being led quickly down the hall.

He grins and waves at “Butcher” Bob who is still sitting awake in his cell across the hall. Nice man—unfortunate homicidal tendencies but a pretty well-rounded guy, considering.

Bulger shoves him forward with his nightstick in an attempted display of authority to the eyes that follow their progress. They turn at the end of the hall into an empty maintenance corridor and away from the long string of cells.

There’s no way Lisbon would give in this soon. She has a reputation to uphold, and Jane respects that.

Maybe someone else is behind this little relocation. The only other suspect is agent Bosco, but Jane can’t imagine why the man would care that he be placed in protective custody.

An immediate sense of foreboding overtakes him at the thought. Bosco wouldn’t care about his safety.

They come to a stop in front of an unmarked door, and Jane suddenly realises they have gone in entirely the wrong direction. “This isn’t the secure ward,” Jane offers helpfully.

Bulger grumbles something that Jane doesn’t quite catch, but he assumes it’s offensive.

There are voices coming from the other side of the door that Jane can just barely hear, but he recognises one voice as belonging to Deputy Silva. The man was not pleasant, and his poorly concealed superiority complex and daddy issues left something to be desired. Jane’s been meaning to inform him that his concerns of infidelity are well founded and perhaps if he tried Viagra he could manage to satisfy his wife.

Jane is a firm believer in the direct approach to social interaction. It’s a public service, really.

The other voice is not familiar, and Jane wonders if it could be the ever elusive warden. Perhaps there are papers to fill out.

Bulger’s stance is particularly aggressive tonight and this doesn’t sit right with Jane.

Papers were a hopeful, but likely unrealistic idea.

He begins to feel this is a set up. A set up by whom, he isn’t entirely certain, but his mind is swimming with suspicion.

Bulger unhooks a ring of keys from his belt, pawing through them quickly and Jane watches his movements carefully. He may have to cut his visit shorter than he expected.

For now, however, he is being led into unknown territory with some rather unscrupulous characters and he mentally prepares himself in case a quick escape becomes necessary.

The door swings open and Bulger shoves Jane forward.

Mental preparation is soon proven wholly inadequate. Jane barely has an opportunity to take in his surroundings or glance at the other two men in the room before an unexpected jolt of electricity hits him.

It pulses from the taser at his back and the shock tears through his muscles. Jane’s legs give out from under him. The hard tiled floor slams into him forcefully and Jane sucks in a startled breath. He sways a little on his hands and knees, his mind having been slowed down considerably from its previously manic level of functioning.

Something hard hits his left shoulder and jolts him from his daze. The impact stings, but his mind clears swiftly from the shock.

Jane’s bound hands seek leverage to lift himself up. He knows how easy it is to kick a man when he’s down. He fails embarrassingly, his motor coordination experiencing a sudden fit of malfunction as he falls onto his side.

A firm grip on his sore shoulder holds Jane still as he tries to roll out of the way, and a kick to his ribcage takes the breath out of him.

He wasn’t expecting violence, but he tries to adapt quickly.

He scans the small room, taking note of the placement of desks and chairs, a filing cabinet to his right, a line of cots along one wall and what look to be dismantled bunks resting in pieces at the back. An office? Break room? Maybe just storage?

Jane tries not to grimace, instead going for distraction. “You know this is assault,” the words push past his throat as he tries to take a breath. “You aren’t going to get away with this. Marty,” he implores, looking to Bulger in an attempt to establish rapport, “you know you don’t want to do this. Three kids to feed, you can’t afford another suspension.”

Silva stalks across the room to shut and lock the door, which Jane takes as further indication of impending danger. The keys hang invitingly from Silva’s belt, not quite tucked into place. All Jane needs is an opportunity.

Bulger stares, obviously confused and a bit unnerved, but nonetheless silent. Jane considers this a positive sign and hastily debates whether or not he could manage a mass hypnosis. He’s never put three people under at once before, at least not unwilling participants, but he has done some of his best work under intense stress.

“How will you take them on vacation this summer?” he continues in an even voice. “I bet the kids love the beach, the water lapping gently against the shore. You remember that, don’t you Marty? Those rolling waves, the ebb and flow of the ocean...”

Marty nods.

Progress sings in Jane’s mind, power a heady drug teasing every synapse.

“Shut him up,” the warden—presumably—demands.

Silva begins rooting around noisily to Jane’s left.

“No, no, no,” Jane insists, trying to keep Bulger’s attention. “You really should—”

His head is jerked back abruptly, his carefully established eye contact broken, and a sinking feeling sets in as a ball of cloth comes into view. It is efficiently forced past his lips.

The taste of sweat and filth mix with the repulsive feel of the fabric rubbing against his teeth and he gags, trying unsuccessfully to push it from his mouth.

Silva secures it in place with a strip of duct tape, and Jane suddenly understands how easy it must be to asphyxiate under these circumstances. He tries to control his gag reflex to avoid such a fate, and when his desperate choking finally recedes, cold laughter drifts across his skin.

Fingers close around his throat from above him, their owner a blur.

Jane realises unsteadily that he can no longer speak.

His mind works on autopilot, attempting to determine the pulse rate of the hand on his throat, but even with this information, there is nothing he can do. Without his voice he is not so formidable and a sense of helplessness begins to claw at him.

Lisbon will come. She has impeccable timing—it has always secretly impressed Jane, and he doesn’t doubt that it would come in handy right now. She’ll know something is wrong. Jane firmly represses the voice that whispers, how?

“That’s much better,” Silva comments. “Keep that pretty little mouth shut real tight.”

Bulger reaches down to him, wrapping an arm around Jane’s waist to pull him up from the floor. Jane is slightly hopeful for a moment but quickly realises he is being dragged over to one of the cots in the corner of the room, even further from the exit.

Bulger tosses him forward and he lands half on and half off the cloth covered mesh of wires and metal. Jane stretches out his cuffed arms and pushes against the cot, trying to distance himself from it while shaking his head emphatically.

Silva shoves him forward, a string of vulgarity expressing his displeasure.

The nameless warden appears in front of him, and Jane has the opportunity to see his face more clearly under the florescent light. He almost looks familiar, but perhaps that is just the feral expression on his face.

Jane has seen such an expression many times in the past, frequently directed at him, though never before has Jane been in this particular position—nearly bent over a cot on his knees with the cold concrete digging into his bones.

Jane continues to thrash and thinks he may be making progress since Bulger’s efforts are having little success at keeping him still.

Silva pulls the nightstick from his belt and Jane braces himself instantly, but is utterly unprepared for the sick crack against his right forearm. A muffled scream rips from his throat.

He crumples into himself, the pain a searing heat rolling over him and for a moment he cannot think, cannot breath, can barely retain consciousness.

His resistance is brought to an abrupt end and the guard’s hands, which he can no longer identify, wrench him from the dirty scuffed floor and rearrange him until his torso lands solidly on the thin mattress.

His arm is at an awkward angle stretched out in front of him and he buries his head between the mattress and his shoulder in avoidance of the pain.

He hasn’t broken a bone since he was fourteen and fell from a stage in a botched performance. The humiliation then was nothing compared to this.

Patrick Jane is not weak; he cannot be bound or restrained. This is unacceptable.

The fingers of his right arm are functionally useless now. He couldn’t pick a lock even if he had something to pick it with. The cloth is still cutting off his air supply, and Jane is beginning to feel overwhelmingly lightheaded.

His heart pounds in time to Silva slapping the nightstick against his hand in a staccato beat. Numbly, Jane wonders why Silva is so nervous.

A surreal feeling of detachment is setting in, wrapping slowly around his mind like slick black oil. Part of him wants to embrace it, but it is not his nature to shy away and his attention focuses and retreats at random.

The warden kneels beside him, and Jane tilts his head to attain a better view.

He needs to focus, needs to memorise this man’s face, read the nuances in his body language. He’s older, maybe fifty, a distinct air of conceit and command. Has to be the warden, though he lacks a nametag like those emblazoned on the guard’s uniforms. Jane commits the image to memory, selecting small carnival tent near the back of his memory palace because he knows he’ll only want to keep this image no longer than it is strictly needed.

Someone pulls at the waistband of Jane’s county-issued blue pants and a sudden rush of panic hits him. Jane’s struggle becomes wild as he realises that this is not a simple rough-up-the-new-inmate initiation to keep him in line.

Bulger moves from his position against the wall to hold Jane down. Strong hands land on Jane’s shoulders, pushing him deeper into the already thin utilitarian mattress.

Jane tries to kick his legs out from beneath him. His cheek is pressed uncomfortably against the mattress and he tries unsuccessfully to brush the tape from his mouth.

The starched cotton fabric slides roughly down his thighs and he thinks he may be sick from the damp cloth still heavy against his tongue, or the searing pulse of pain running through his numb fingers and into his wrecked shoulder. He can’t be, he knows this. There’s a very good chance that they wouldn’t even notice and he’d just die here, completely exposed and Red John would still be out there without a knife twisted into his chest. Jane still has work to do here.

There are hands on his back, shoving his shirt up and rubbing against his spine. A booted foot kicks his legs apart roughly. Jane pushes down the nausea and tries not to think, not to breathe, just to focus.

He cannot clearly see the nameless warden standing close behind him, but he can hear every small shift in his position, the even sound of his breathing. He is calm, perfectly and utterly calm in a way that Jane has come to associate with the empathy-free malignant peacefulness of a psychopath. It is something Jane has spent years trying to emulate.

The others are clearly submissive to him, and in Jane’s experience that sort of herd mentality never leads anywhere good.

The cold tip of a nightstick brushes across Jane’s thighs for a moment, disappearing quickly after making its presence known.

Jane sucks in a strained breath very slowly, waiting.

The sting of the nightstick spreads rapidly down the backs of Jane’s thighs and his jaw clenches in restraint. He is unwilling to give them the satisfaction of flinching.

The warden’s psychological issues are quickly becoming apparent. Jane would bring it up, if he could. Taunt him a little to throw him off. The need to degrade though use of physical force and humiliation is a trait Jane finds appalling, though fascinating. The warden brushes against Jane’s hip as he changes position, and judging by the erection straining against the man’s jeans this violence is sexually arousing to him.

The more he contemplates his current aggressor’s darker nature, the further he distances himself from the fact that he hasn’t quite managed to find a way out of this yet.

The nightstick snaps viciously against his legs again. Jane’s thighs clench together automatically in evasion of the pain, but a foot quickly returns and kicks them apart again, farther this time.

Jane opens his eyes and is somewhat surprised that he hadn’t noticed closing them. The room seems darker now, though the light over head is still on and all three men are still surrounding him.

He glares at Silva, the only one he can see clearly with his head tilted at this awkward angle, and seethes behind his gag. Another cold laugh echoes behind him and the warden comes back into view, dark hair falling in front of one eye as he bends down close to Jane’s face.

The self-satisfied smirk marring the man’s features and twisting them into a cruel mockery of a human countenance enrages Jane even more.

Jane can feel the heat coming off of him, smell the rancid odour of cheap cologne and cigarettes.

He leans closer, almost conspiratorially, his lips nearly brushing Jane’s ear. “He said you’d be an arrogant bastard,” the nameless man whispers roughly, his breath hot and moist. “And to tell you how much he enjoyed your lovely wife. She was a screamer.”

Jane pales and stills. The blood rushing through his veins is absurdly loud in the quiet room.

No.

He pushes the images away, tries not to see her face, hear her voice. She doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t want her here, not now, not like this.

Her face won’t leave his mind now, and part of him—the part he tries to keep buried but is always just waiting for its opportunity to destroy him a little bit more—tells him that he deserves this, that he should know what she felt, that it will only fuel his rage.

Rage is all that remains of him now, a slow burning fire in this shell of a body, and he clings to it fiercely.

The nightstick is shoved into him slightly, sharp and inescapable and Jane can’t help but resist its entrance.

The warden chuckles at his response and pushes farther, harder, spitting saliva on the nightstick that does absolutely nothing in terms of lubrication but certainly adds to Jane’s repulsion significantly.

A solid thrust and searing pain rips through him, a scream tearing through his throat, muffled by the gag.

Jane is writhing despite himself, unable now to temper his features into a mask of indifference, and the physical pain wars with the unwanted remembrance of his wife’s glassy eyes and—fuck, it won’t stop.

He can’t get away. He is engulfed, surrounded, positively drowning in the sharp bursts and dull aches that claw ravenously at him.

The resistance of his body gives way inexplicably, and he can feel a hot trail of blood beginning to run down his thighs. He would gasp if he could breathe.

As it stands he can barely inhale and every exhale is now being ripped out of him in a half-pant, half-ragged protest that he is unable to define as a sob. The sickening feel of the nightstick sliding slickly back out before thrusting roughly back in is nauseating and his brain traitorously provides him with the images his eyes can’t obtain.

He clenches them shut anyway, as though this can offer some reprieve, and all thoughts of focus and rationality are swiftly ushered from his faltering mind.

A hand wraps around his cock and Silva chuckles, asking, “What, not enjoying yourself Patrick?” The glide of a zipper sounds in the background.

His eyes open slightly but his vision is black and inky around the edges; some combination of oxygen deprivation and debilitating pain triggering his mental defences.

Everything hurts, everything, and Jane can no longer differentiate between parts and severities, between what is real and what is imagined.

The ache rolls over him like a wave, familiar waters that pull him under and engulf him.

The pain shifts slowly, morphing into a writhing, pulsing thing inside of him; building on what was already in there and now so close to the surface that Jane thinks he could brush his fingertips across it as it slithers just beneath his skin, if only his wrists were not bound quite so tightly.

There is laughter floating on the air as he sucks it in, leaving a bitter aftertaste to join the bile that burns in his throat.

He wonders absently about the strange tingling in his fingers that is creeping up his arms, and maybe this should concern him a bit, maybe it does matter that he’s losing feeling in his limbs and his cheeks are numbly cold. But that’s preposterous. Such trivialities could not matter here.

The laughter swirls and peaks, and through his lidded gaze he can see it, actually see it—a mass of twisting colours and violent patterns splattered in the air around him.

Laughter should be beautiful, Jane thinks, and he can remember when it was. He forbids himself from remembering the things that he never deserved—can never deserve—but he is weak and selfish and he lets them come back to him, just this once, just for a moment.

His eyes drift closed but quickly flutter open again.

The sky is dark, but there are stars and clean air and here the laughter is what it should be, what it was.

He tilts his head to glimpse his little girl’s unruly blonde curls as laughter bubbles up in her, spilling freely into the night as she lies on the grass beside him.

A warm hand tightens around his and his beautiful wife points up at the stars, identifying them with great creative license and amusement because they are all hers and their names can be anything she wants them to be.

She notices him watching her and smiles, lowering her arm to place her palm against his cheek and her lips lightly against his own. He wants to tell her things, so many things, but they all crowd and clog in this throat, trapped and condemned to silence.

He glances down at her wrist as she pulls away, but her skin is so grey he can barely see it in the darkness.

Jane reaches out to touch her, to keep her close, but as his fingers brush tenderly across her skin she crumbles, still smiling lovingly as the wind picks up to carry her away. The laughter is gone and his daughter’s place in the long grass next to him is vacant. Without them the sky is as cold and empty as he is.

By the time he wakes to his cellmate’s panicked voice above him and the cold tacky feel of drying blood, Jane feels nothing at all.

***  
END OF PART 1


	2. Part Two: Comfort (Sort of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane copes. Not in a conventional way, either. Serious trigger warnings for this chapter as well.

The syringe is light in his suit pocket. Almost nonexistent. A precaution, really. Just a thin tube of fluid-filled plastic. He pats it every ten minutes or so, to make sure it’s still there. It is. So he waits, as patient as a calm cool breeze with just a slight edge of madness idling in the back of his mind.

Jane smiles to himself and pulls out a chair from the polished wooden table, settling in. His fingers drum Ave Maria and he can hear the silent chords spark in the air around him.

He doesn’t have to wait long, but he could have waited decades if he needed to. His senses are sharp, razor-edged with anticipation. The click of the front door echoes through the quaint little house.

A set of heavy footsteps follow—a familiar drag and fall pattern. Bulger still hasn’t replaced those shoes.

Jane doesn’t lift his head when the man enters the kitchen, but a smirk pulls at the corners of his lips when the footsteps halt.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Bulger demands, predictably. The hint of trepidation in his voice is sweeter than honey and oh so satisfying.

Jane glances up at him, his face a practiced calm, revealing nothing.

“Take a seat,” Jane offers politely. The air is heavy with silence. Jane can hear Bulger’s labored breathing and estimates his BPM to be around 125. A bit too high, but Jane is prepared for emergencies.

“Now don’t be rude,” Jane admonishes Bulger. He nods to the chair across the table. “Sit. I’m making us tea. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve made myself at home.”

Bulger’s hand hovers above the nightstick still strapped to his utility belt. He thinks he has the upper hand here, naturally.

Jane smiles warmly, disarmingly. The sling on his right arm adds to the effect nicely.

The kettle goes off, releasing a sharp whine that stirs the still air. Jane lifts himself from the chair, slower than normal but he does a decent job of masking it.

He moves toward the counter and Bulger twitches, his hand wrapping around the nightstick impulsively. Jane raises one hand innocently and chuckles. “I’m not armed, Deputy.”

He pours the hot water into two cups, mixing a bit of sugar into his own and clinking the spoon on the edge of the glass.

Bulger glares at him, but eventually sits, sending an obvious glance to the cordless phone resting on the counter. Jane places the steaming cup in front of him, but Bulger makes no move to accept it.

Jane sips his tea—peppermint and bergamot, an unusual combination, but still far too hot to enjoy—and returns to his seat, careful to make no threatening movements.

“Thought you’d had enough in lockup,” Bulger says, his beady eyes glowering but unsure. “It sure was a damn stupid idea to come into my home.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Jane replies easily.

“You think I can let you walk outta here?”

“Well,” Jane glances at his watch, “your children will be coming home from school in about forty minutes. Your wife in twenty. Surely you wouldn’t want them to see what a deeply disturbed little man you really are?”

Bulger snorts, shoving his tea cup forward several inches and letting the hot water spill over the edge. “You don’t know a damn thing about me. You’re lucky we didn’t let you bleed to death on the goddamn floor.”

Jane nods. “I am.” He tilts his head slightly, scrutinizing the man’s now confident posture. Perfect. “But I think I do know a little something about you,” Jane adds, his voice smooth and even. “Stop me if I’m wrong.”

Jane watches him closely, picking up the teaspoon with his good hand and swishing the tea around counter clockwise as Bulger follows the circling movement.

“You took up wrestling in the seventh grade. Didn’t go anywhere with it, but it wasn’t about that for you was it, Marty? No, it was an escape. Abusive father, dead mother, nobody to care about an underachieving social reject. You found something then, didn’t you, Marty? Power. And you liked it, no doubt. Who wouldn’t? No one picked on you after that.”

“What’s your point?” Bulger asks, his gaze still locked on the swirling spoon.

“Oh, no point. Tell me Marty, when you started getting erections during practice, did that make you strike the other boys even harder?”

Bulger nods calmly, his face lax.

“I bet. But you didn’t stop there, did you? You punished them, but you punished yourself, too. You knew your father wouldn’t approve. The guilt and shame just ate you up. You still feel that now, Marty. Do you feel it? It’s chipping away at you, piece by piece by piece. You’re no different from your own father, Marty. That cold distant man who blamed you for his failed life and your mother’s death. Your kids deserve better, don’t you think?”

Jane receives another numb nod.

“You need to do something about that guilt, Marty.”

“I need to do something,” Bulger agrees in a whisper.

Jane nods to the tea kettle on the counter. “Why don’t you put the kettle back on the stove and put your hand in it. I think that will help,” Jane suggests.

Bulger stands, his plump fingers grasping the gas oven dial and lighting it up with a series of fast clicks until the flame catches. He takes the lid off and struggles to fit his hand inside the small confines of the kettle. The water will still be hot, Jane knows, and its boiling point won’t take long to reach.

He glances at his watch again. Time ticks away, but Jane isn’t worried. He has nothing left but time.

Bulger’s face turns a bright ugly red and his brows knit in concentration.

“Isn’t that better?” Jane asks, watching with detached interest.

“Yes,” Bulger gasps. Sweat beads on his forehead and the kettle begins to whistle through the spout and the small gaps around his wrist, staining his skin pink where the steam touches.

“Tell me Marty, and be honest, why did the warden single me out?”

“He said you were a troublemaker—” a shuddering breath interrupts his words “—He wanted to teach you a lesson.”

“Do you know anything about his motives? Did he ever mention someone requesting that I be taught a lesson? The truth will make you feel better, Marty, I promise.”

“No. He never told me anything more. I—I was only doing my job.”

A sharp cry drags itself slowly out of Bulger’s open mouth like the keening shriek of an animal.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Jane frowns. He figured the Deputy would be a lost cause, but better to cover all bases.

He sighs, dumping the cups out in the sink and rinsing the ceramic before drying and returning them efficiently to the cupboard. Bulger groans loudly behind him.

“It’s not enough though, is it Marty?” Jane’s voice is understanding—almost wistful.

Bulger doesn’t answer, but shakes his head in agreement. Jane takes a rag from the counter and wipes down the table and the handle of the spoon. He’d taken care not to leave any prints, though he doubted he’d ever be connected to the scene anyway. What would they do? Put him in prison? Jane scoffs.

He turns to look at the sweating, panting man and recalls this reaction with a touch of déjà vu. It seems morbidly fitting.

“I’m afraid I have to be going, Marty. Busy day,” Jane explains gently. “Why don’t you go upstairs and try to come up with a more permanent solution? Perhaps that .22 in your dresser will be more effective,” he suggests.

Jane leaves him in the kitchen and closes the back door behind him, dropping the rag into a flowerpot on the steps.

There will be no vacations for the Bulger family this year. Pity. He’d heard the weather was going to be ideal on the coast.

He hears the shot as his good hand reaches the car door. He pauses briefly, but shakes it off.

He’s not supposed to be driving, really, but he isn’t supposed to be doing a lot of things and that has never stopped him before. Still, Lisbon will be irritated that he disobeyed the doctor’s orders. Par for the course, as it were. He’ll bring donuts to make up for it.

* * *

He knows Lisbon would let him into the interrogation room if he asked. She has no idea the man’s connection to Jane. There would be no reason for her to deny Jane access to him, but he needs the privacy that secrecy offers.

She’d been especially lenient since Jane had been released from the hospital. He’d played it up, naturally, when the opportunity served him, and thought nothing of it until last Friday.

She’d stayed late after work holed up in her dark office, blinds drawn, and it wasn’t an unusual occurrence by any means, but when Jane knocked on her door he’d been surprised that she invited him in without prompting.

He hadn’t noticed the dark circles under her eyes until then, or the way she couldn’t quite meet his gaze. There was scotch on her breath and he realized for the first time that even if she didn’t know, couldn’t possibly have found out the details, that she nonetheless held herself responsible.

It was guilt she was trying to drown and he’d been letting her tear herself up for, god, two months, maybe more.

Still, he couldn’t think of anything to say to her to explain his behavior, or his silence. He’d politely excused himself, going home for the first night in as long as he could remember because there could only be so many people drowning in one place at one time before it got crowded.

He hadn’t asked her for anything since.

When the case had come in, it had been more than he could have hoped for. Such serendipitous opportunities were not to be wasted and it didn’t take much for Jane to twist it in his favor.

Jane slips into the room and closes the door quietly behind him before turning to Silva. He can see surprise color his face, and takes a seat silently at the interrogation table.

The man is tense, and why shouldn’t he be? Murder charges are nothing to take lightly, and Jane appreciates the man’s overall discomfort at least in principle. For practical reasons Jane will have to do something about that, but he allows himself a moment of indulgence, watching Silva shift nervously in his seat.

“Why are you here?” Silva demands.

Jane chuckles at the question. It’s always the same, always predictable.

“I work here,” Jane offers cheerfully. He tosses the folder he’d brought in onto the tabletop with a flourish, simultaneously pulling a pen from his shirt pocket.

Props ready, Jane continues, “Looks like you’ve found yourself in some trouble, Deputy.”

He runs the lidded pen down the folder’s contents, not looking up.

“You bastard. You set me up,” Silva accuses, the man’s volatile temper sliding over every vowel and consonant.

“Me?” Jane feigns surprise. “I assure you, I have had nothing to do with this case. I do find it suspicious, however, that the body turned up right as you were coming on shift. Awfully convenient, isn’t it?”

“What are you talking about?”

Ah, he’s going to have to spell it out for this one. Smaller words, then.

“I’m saying I think you’re absolutely right. Someone’s set you up to take the fall for a crime you didn’t commit.” Silva looks unconvinced, but Jane continues unhindered. “Between you and me,” he whispers, leaning forward conspiratorially and laying his hands flat on the table, “I think your boss wants to keep you quiet.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“No, I’m completely serious. Happens all the time. You’ve got dirt on him, and he doesn’t want to risk his reputation. Smart move on his part, really. And what’s worse, you know the CBI isn’t going to find out. He’s covered his tracks too well, and you’re left taking the fall.” Jane taps the tip of the pen against the table rhythmically, catching Silva’s attention.

“That’s not fair. I didn’t kill that guy.”

“I know,” Jane agrees. “It isn’t fair. How long have you been on this job now, John? Do you mind if I call you John?”

“Eleven years.”

“Eleven years of your life. Gone. It’s not just the warden, either. It’s the system. It takes what it needs and dumps the rest, regardless of who gets hurt in the process.” Tap, tap, tap. “Are you going to let them take eleven years of your life from you? Your job? Your reputation?”

“No, they can’t do that,” Silva mutters, shaking his head, “they can’t just do that.”

“You can’t let them take what’s yours,” Jane adds.

“I can’t let them,” Silva echoes angrily.

“Easy now,” Jane soothes, pen tapping in a calm rhythm against the table. “Wouldn’t want to get your heart going. With your family’s history, that could be dangerous.”

Silva frowns, his brows furrowed as he glances suspiciously between Jane’s face and the pen in his hand.

“Does it ever bother you, John—the fact that you might die young of something you have no control over? Do you ever think about it?”

Silva does not answer.

“I bet you don’t,” Jane continues. “It’s easy to latch on to that adolescent feeling of immortality, and just never let it go. Meanwhile your body ages, your heart weakens, just a bit more every year, every day, with every beat. Then one day it just hits you. One day. Who knows when? Maybe that day is today, John. Maybe not.” Jane shrugs. “But you’ll know it when it comes. At first you’ll be out of breath.”

The pen taps against the table slightly faster. Silva watches it raptly and Jane observes his chest rise and fall in time to the soft clicks. He ups the tempo steadily.

Jane continues slowly, quietly, letting every word build on the last in his subject’s mind, “Your breath will speed up with your heart rate until you can barely suck in air fast enough to sustain your body.”

Silva’s frown deepens, his breath coming in heavier, quicker gasps. His hand rises to his throat.

“Your heart starts to beat so hard in your chest that it feels like its slamming itself against your ribcage, trying to get out.”

He cringes visibly and leans forward on the table, a tremor running through him. Jane’s gaze narrows, focusing on the trailing beads of sweat, the developing pallor.

“You’ll start stuttering and choking and gasping.”

Silva follows Jane’s lead like a well trained dog, grasping at his chest, his arm, the table edge. He can’t escape now as it burns inside of him like his heart is being cut out with a dull knife. Jane knows the feeling.

“Helpless. Terrified. Alone.”

The pen hits the table harder, faster. Violently.

Silva chokes, trying, and failing beautifully, to call for help.

“Adrenaline pulses ineffectively through your veins as your heart works itself into a frenzy to keep you alive when all it’s really doing is killing you slowly and painfully. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

Silva is semi-sprawled between the chair and the table, gasping, writhing. Jane pauses a moment to watch.

“I can make it stop, though,” Jane offers eventually. “Is that what you want?”

Silva nods, just as emphatically as his overweight counterpart, but not quite convincingly enough.

“You’ll have to ask me nicely, John,” Jane insists. The man needs to learn some respect, after all.

Silva mutters something vague between choking and groaning. He’s getting to be a bit loud, which is something Jane would rather avoid. No need to make a scene.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Please,” comes the muffled response, “oh god, fuck, make it stop!”

Fascinating. Six feet tall, nearing two hundred pounds of solid muscle and incapacitated by no more than his own fear and a little simulated chest pain. There should be a sick thrill in watching him crumble and whine like an infant. But business calls.

“Fine,” Jane concedes. “But first you need to answer something for me. Every word of truth that comes from your mouth will ease the pain, calm your heart, relieve the stress on your lungs. Do you understand?”

Silva nods again, the fingers of his right hand digging into the unyielding table as his other hand tears at the collar of his shirt. The air conditioner hums in the corner.

“Good. Tell me about your boss. Why did he single me out? Who gave him the suggestion?”

“There was a man. A friend of the warden. Old friend. He came to his office once and I heard them talking.”

“When?”

“I—I don’t—”

“Yes you do, John. You remember it clearly, as clearly as if it were happening right here, right now. When did you see him?”

“It was just before you came. The same morning. The warden shook his hand when he came in, laughed and joked like he’d known him for years,” Silva mutters, his breath coming in more manageable gasps and the tense lines of muscle in his arms smoothing slightly.

“And what did they say, John? Be precise.”

“I don’t know exactly, I was just walking past his office. Going off shift. I had to call a cab ‘cause my truck was in the shop. Warden was arguing with the guy so I thought I might need to step in.” Silva’s speech was slightly slurred, but he seemed to be coming down. “But then he stopped real abruptly and the man said the warden owed him a favor and that someone needed to be taught a lesson. Said he was stubborn. Needed to be broken in. Then he said he had business to take care of and he’d call with the specifics. Warden had me pull a double and brought you in that night. That was the only time I ever seen him, I swear.”

Jane pursed his lips in consideration. Silva dropped back down into his chair and his head fell into his hands as he sucked air in slowly, still trembling.

“Did you catch his name? Where he was going?”

“No,” Silva answered.

It wasn’t much, but it was a place to start. There could be phone records, eyewitnesses, and forensics. Better yet, there was still the warden. It was all very promising, and Silva had honestly exhausted his usefulness.

“Well, now that that’s settled I’d better be going,” Jane declares, grabbing the file and pen from the table. “Oh. You stay. My colleagues will no doubt have further questions for you and it will be best you forget this encounter. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help with the whole murder accusation thing.” Jane turns to leave, but pauses to study Silva a final time. “Although, I do know a way you can help yourself.”

* * *

The initial arraignment starts at eight and Jane is there bright and early, sitting near the back because it is important to see justice in action at all points of the process. Lisbon offered a raised eyebrow, but seemed pleased that he’d taken an interest nonetheless.

Silva sits calmly at the defence table as the judge drones on and on. The man’s voice is like a tranquillizer. The gavel falls with a heavy bang and Jane starts a bit, his attention piqued.

Bail is set at half a million, flight risks are noted and a brief argument ensues between the defence counsel and prosecutor as to whether Silva’s deputy status makes him more likely to jump ship.

None of that matters though.

Jane focuses on Silva’s lips, a quiet mutter that doesn’t quite reach the back row and that no one closer appears to be listening to. His attorney shushes him with a waved hand but Silva is undeterred.

Jane leans forward for a better view.

The lack of listeners seems to further incite Silva’s obvious distress until the hushed muttering rises to a higher volume and Jane can hear snippets of his complaints above the small crowd.

“You can’t take what’s mine!” Silva yells as the judge’s gavel calls futilely for order. “No, no, you can’t take anything from me!”

A bailiff moves from the judge’s side to apprehend the now visibly irked Silva and cease his protests.

With all the commotion, Jane almost misses the brief flash of light glinting off the defence attorney’s Caran d’Ache fountain pen as Silva grabs it from the man’s shirt pocket.

His hand is lightning fast, and it is clear by the instinctual step back those nearest him take that his action is unexpected.

Silva’s hand twists, plunges, and drives the fine tipped instrument into his throat, dragging left to right so forcefully that his angry protests shift into choked wet gasps before anyone can comprehend what has just taken place.

Blood sprays in a neat arc across the defence table, staining the shocked face of Silva’s immobilized attorney.

Silva falls to his knees before hitting the floor with a solid thump reminiscent of the Judge’s gavel, gurgling and writhing on the floor. This, Jane decides, is what justice must sound like. This little field trip has been worthwhile after all.

Guards rush in and a circle of onlookers forms rapidly to gawk, one trying to apply pressure to the wound, but there is nothing to be done. Severed jugular, damaged trachea, beta blockers for his heart condition—he’ll be dead moments after hitting the ground and no amount of pressure will aid coagulation.

Jane sits back on the bench, his arms crossed, and waits until he can no longer see Silva’s polished black shoes kicking against the dirty floor.

Silva finally stills, though the growing crowd continues to buzz in excited distress. Jane slips out of the courtroom as the EMS come in.

He leaves the solid walls of justice and law behind, taking the marble steps at a leisurely pace, and contemplates the explanation he will need to offer Lisbon upon his return.

Ignorance is his best bet. What a shame that that disturbed man had taken his own life in front of all those people, and how lucky Jane was to have been bored to death by the proceedings and inspired to take an early leave.

By the time he returns to the office there is a steaming cup of tea and a plate of cookies waiting for him.

He isn’t in the mood for either, but he knows Van Pelt has been excessively worried about him since his return from ‘the big house’ and she found it cathartic to express that concern with maternal care and baked goods.

Who is he to complain? She finds some relief and the office is filled with the sugary sweet presence of melted chocolate and cinnamon. Everyone wins.

His fingers wrap around the warm mug and he breathes in the light scent of lemongrass and chamomile.

* * *

Jacob McLain’s social life was limited.

Once a week he went out for drinks with a few other men—three retired marines and a Princeton professor with a cocaine problem.

He hadn’t brought a woman to his home in months, probably years, but there was a string of prostitutes across the state that he frequented on a regular basis. He was into some kinky activities, not surprisingly, and those underlying passions ate up a good quarter of his pay check every month.

His elderly mother—Gladys—though, she was a social butterfly. Bingo on Fridays, church functions all day Sunday, volunteering on Thursdays, and, most importantly, cards with the girls on Tuesday night.

She’s gone three hours and thirty six minutes on average, but Jane doesn’t need that long.

He takes the front door, just for the hell of it, and can see the flicker of a television through the curtains on the bay window.

No need to worry about alarms with mother out painting the town.

The concrete steps are bracketed by a variety of green leafy bushes and he feels almost exposed standing on this man’s front step in this empty, absurdly quiet neighborhood.

It’s rude not to knock, but Jane has always taken a bit of pleasure from flagrantly neglecting the pleasantries of social etiquette. His hand wraps around the curving handle of the door and there is a faint fluttering of anticipation in his stomach.

The door pops open silently, conveniently unlocked—though the lock wouldn’t have deterred him. Strange really, that a prison warden, not well liked among peers let alone ex-cons, would leave his doors open to whatever unscrupulous characters happened to wander by.

Jane files this neatly under the ‘arrogance’ category as he very slowly pushes the door open and crosses the threshold. The foyer is too dark to see clearly, but Jane uses his hands to guide the door closed, wincing slightly at the twinge in his right arm.

The occasional muted flash of light rolls across the hardwood floor, bursts of red and yellow, as the TV continues to play loudly in the other room.

Jane has a fine appreciation for the element of surprise. It’s his favorite element, in fact, and he hates to go without it when it can be helped.

The door clicks shut with a slight groan and he can nearly taste the satisf—Jane startles impulsively as something cold snaps against his wrist.

Handcuffs.

His stomach drops sickeningly as he stumbles backward a few steps with the cuff still firmly attached to one wrist, knocking into a small table noisily, and his momentum jerks them both backward.

His free hand automatically dives into his suit pocket, grasping the syringe there, but a hand—smaller than expected—lands on his chest and he stills.

“Lisbon?” he whispers, confused and more than a little irritated by the interruption.

He tries to pull his wrist free and compose himself, but her right hand mirrors his movements and it becomes apparent that she is attached to the other end of the steel restraints.

“Jane,” she returns calmly, unnervingly unreadable through the shadows.

She must have been coerced into coming here. Kidnapped, maybe? Something to do with a case? Maybe the warden had trapped her here and...but why would he? If they made too much noise he’d hear them, he could find out they were here.

It hits him a second later than it should have that the house is empty.

The television, the quiet street, the open doors, it’s all for show and he can’t understand how he could have been so stupid as to not have realized this before.

He’s been too preoccupied. Sloppy and reckless. He’d let himself slip up. It’s a rookie mistake that could cost him everything. But he can’t stop now.

He can’t afford to let this man walk away with all that knowledge just rotting idly in his brain. He’ll cut it out himself if he has to.

Jane is too close to walk away.

“I’d hoped you wouldn’t show,” she says quietly.

He doesn’t respond. There’s nothing to say.

The handcuff strapped to his left wrist can’t hold him back. Not for long. Lisbon has to know this. She has to know she can’t stop him.

For a moment he wonders just how far gone he is if his first instinct is still to reach for the syringe of sedatives in his suit pocket.

There’s no way she’d come here expecting him to comply with her precious little rulebook.

She trusts him, he realizes, and the knowledge catches him off guard.

“Van Pelt heard you interrogating Deputy Silva.”

“What did she say?” Jane asks in attempt to survey the damage.

“She wouldn’t talk about it besides insisting I come here. I had to have Cho and Rigsby keep McLain away from his own house. You scared the hell out of her,” Lisbon tells him, standing far too close.

Reckless. He’s been reckless. They should never have found out.

“I’d never—” Jane mumbles, struggling to explain what he is sure she can’t understand, “I would never hurt her. Any of you. I just—” It’s a lie, and he knows it. No matter what good intentions he may hold, there are always casualties in war and he won’t be able to protect them from that.

“She wasn’t scared of you, Jane. She was scared for you. We all are. God, don’t you get that?”

She’s angry. No, not just angry. Maybe livid. Her voice is heavy, strained. He can’t look at her, he just can’t, and he hates himself even more for that.

Jane clenches his jaw, grinding his teeth together. She has no right to be upset with him. This is none of her business.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he whispers. “This is none of your concern. I have to—”

Lisbon’s open palm connects with his face hard, and Jane is momentarily stunned into silence.

Yes, definitely livid. Ow.

“How dare you!” she shouts. “You are my concern. What are you even doing here, Jane? Were you going to kill him? No, no don’t even tell me. I don’t want to know. God, I am so tired of waiting, just waiting for you to come around and talk and open up. You never will! No, this is the only way I can get you to stand still for five minutes without avoiding me. And don’t think the team hasn’t noticed, Jane. We’re all worried about you, we’re all here for you, why won’t you let us help? ”

He is beyond help, he assures himself, but the numbness that has consumed him is slowly falling away even as he tries futilely to keep it in place.

“You don’t understand, Lisbon. I have to do this. This man, he knows something about Red John.”

She scoffs. “What proof do you have of that Jane?” Quieter, she asks, “What happened to you?”

He tries to maintain the confidence in his voice, keep the hidden things from reaching the surface, “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Lisbon counters.

“It was my fault. I told myself that working with the CBI was the best way to find him, but I knew it wasn’t. I knew. And I should have been out there hunting him all this time, Lisbon. God, I’ve wasted years.”

“Your family wouldn’t want you to do this, Jane. Not like this. You’re hurting people.”

“This man deserves to be hurt. He’s nothing but a waste of space.”

Lisbon stares him down resolutely. “I don’t just mean him. You’re hurting the people that care about you.”

It’s the only way.

Stale breath still whispers in his ear, she was a screamer, and Jane can hear her scream.

“I’m not sorry. Do you get that? This is who I really am, what I am.”

“I don’t believe that.”

She’s standing too close, too close.

“I’ve done terrible things, Lisbon. I’m a bad man. The kind that you’re always trying to put away. I’m worse than all of them.”

He can’t breathe. The foyer is small, confining.

“Jane. Stop.”

There isn’t anything to hide behind, no escaping.

“No. No, not until you understand what I’m capable of,” he nearly shouts, unable to hear clearly over the screaming in his head as it wraps around him in stinging accusation.

“I know what you’re capable of. You aren’t a monster, Jane. I know you.”

She needs to understand. She has no idea how far gone he is, the things he’s done, the things he will do.

“I killed them,” he confesses softly.

Lisbon goes quiet and the screaming in his head abruptly stops.

“Who did you kill, Jane?”

He can still see their blood when his eyes close, the smiling face on the wall, their cold bodies.

“My wife. My daughter. It was my fault. I killed them, and then I just—I just let them die. I let them go. I didn’t mean to, I didn’t,” he tries to explain. “I lost focus and didn’t even realize when I’d stopped dreaming about them or when my priorities shifted. It had been so long since I’d dreamt about them. Even the nightmares, they were better than nothing at all because at least I could see them, I could remember. I can’t just let them die like that.”

“Jane, it’s okay to let them go. It’s okay to live,” Lisbon tells him. Another lie.

“You’re wrong.”

“They’d want you to live, Jane.”

He shakes his head. “They’re dead. They don’t want anything.”

“The living want you to stick around, too.”

Her voice is soft, honest.

She’s so easy to read sometimes and he knows immediately what she means, where she’s going, and he can’t have it.

“Don’t do that,” Jane demands.

“Do what?”

She needs to understand that he’s dangerous, that he’s mad, that there is no turning back and nothing left of him to save.

But her face, scarcely discernible in the dim light of the incessantly flickering television, tells him that she never will. Worse, there is sympathy there in the curve of her lips, in the sincerity of her gaze.

He doesn’t deserve what she is offering and it infuriates him that she can just stand there so nonjudgmental and accepting when there is no place in this world for such simple displays of humanity.

He wants her to hate him, to scream at him, to just leave him alone in this dark foyer of a house that isn’t his so he can break down and never get up from the floor.

“Don’t forgive me,” Jane pleads, and his voice doesn’t feel like his own. It belongs to someone he’d thought had died too long ago to be remembered. Someone weak. Someone human. “Don’t, just—don’t forgive me, please.”

“I’m not letting you go.”

Her hand rises to rest against his cheek, and his follows by virtue of bring chained to hers.

He places it over her smaller hand for lack of an alternative, and secretly marvels that her skin doesn’t turn to ash from his touch. Maybe that means something. Maybe there is some hope in that.

It isn’t the first time he’s been pulled back from the brink of destruction, and when the morning paper covers the warden’s smiley-faced murder in smudging black ink, he wonders if rest will always be so elusive. But lying on his couch as his team works and laughs around him, he realizes for the first time that it is not his burden alone to carry.


End file.
